Savage coast, p.7
Savage Coast, page 7
part #1 of Coastal Caribbean Adventure Series
“Nope. I’m calling mine.”
Chapter Thirteen
After I got off the phone with Kathleen, Brad and I only had to wait another three minutes before Detective Wallace reappeared in the doorway and headed toward us. He had the look of a man who had just gotten his ass chewed out. He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier,” he said. “Miss Gleason is over there. Take all the time you need.”
I thanked him and made my way over to an ambulance with its back doors open. Della was sitting on the back bumper. She was pretty but had a dazed look in her eyes. Her black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and mascara had tracked down her face like dirty tears. I introduced myself and asked if I could speak with her about what had happened in the motel room. She answered with a weak nod of her head. “I already answered some questions for the detective.”
“Understood. But we’re with a division of Homeland Security.”
“Am—am I in some kind of trouble?”
“No, at least, not as far as I know. We all just have a lot of questions, and we’re trying to get a handle on what happened.”
“Okay.”
“Can you start with how you knew Mr. Scahill?”
“We met at the Clam Shell in Marathon. I had just broken up with my boyfriend when I met Eric at the bar. We hit it off and have just been roaming between Tampa and Miami and the Keys for the last couple of months.” She got a faraway look in her eyes. “It was a lot of fun.”
“How long ago did you two first meet?” Brad asked.
“About five weeks ago tomorrow. I remember because it was the day after my birthday.”
That explained why she hadn’t shown up as a possible connection to him. Scahill must have made his way down here after he was last seen at the gas station in Orlando. “Did he ever say anything to you about his past? About things he may have been involved with?”
A frown creased her brow. “No. Not really. He told me he used to sell cars for a living but got tired of the 9-to-5 and wanted to live a little. We didn’t talk a lot about our past. Just about stuff we wanted to do together and the things we had already done.” Up to this point, she had been staring at the pavement. Now she looked up at me. “Why? What’d he do?”
“Eric was wanted as a person of interest in a murder investigation in Miami. He wasn’t seen as a suspect.”
She sighed heavily. “After a while, I started suspecting that he was probably running from somethin’. I just never wanted to know from what. I was having too much fun.”
“Why did he use his credit card here at the motel?” Brad asked. “He hadn’t used it in several weeks.”
A heavy look of shame passed over her face. “Because my cards all hit their limit. I had some cash that I’d been saving, and that held us up for the first few weeks. But, you know that kinda thing don’t last forever and it ran out. He said using his card just this one time should be fine.”
“Della,” I said, “is there anything else you can remember? Did he ever call anyone or did he mention something that didn’t make sense at the time?”
“No, not . . . really.” When she blinked next, it looked like she had just recalled something. But she stayed silent.
Brad saw it too. “Nothing?” he said. “Della, if you know anything we’re the only people that are fully invested in finding his killer.”
She hesitated, started to speak, and then halted. Finally, “He kept an empty can of Diet Coke on the floorboard of the car.” She blurted it out quickly, like she was being forced to give up nuclear codes to the enemy.
Brad and I exchanged glances. “Coke can?” I repeated. She’d been through a lot in the last half hour. It was looking like she had hit her limit.
“Yes. He said he had some important information and that when the time was right, he would get a lot of money for it.”
“And what’s the Coke can have to do with that?”
“Well, that’s where he kept the information.” What she was saying still made no sense. She looked up at us and seemed to finally understand that. “Sorry. It’s a USB port or drive—or whatever those things are called. My car is twenty years old and no one’s going to steal it. And it’s as sure as hell that no one is going to clean it out. So he kept it there so he wouldn’t lose it while we were traveling.
I looked back to Brad who seemed as shocked as I was. It was actually a pretty damn good idea.
“Do you have your keys on you?”
“Yes.” She stood up and dug them out of her pocket.
“Would you mind getting it for us?”
She nodded and we followed her to her car. She unlocked it and opened the back door, reached down, and plucked a dented can of Diet Coke from a scattering of empty packs of cigarettes, torn candy wrappers, and old newspapers. “Here.” She held it out to me.
The tab was missing and because of the dent, I couldn’t see in the back. I shook it but nothing sounded inside. “You sure that—”
“He glued it down in there. You’ll have to cut into it.”
Taking out my keys I punctured a hole in the side and wedged the key back and forth, praying to God that I didn’t slice my finger off. I pulled the key out and used both hands to tear the can apart. There, as Della said, was a dark grey USB drive attached to the inside of the can.
“Well, looka that,” Brad said.
I worked it off the aluminum, and it popped free just as Detective Wallace stepped back outside and came toward us. “What are you doing?”
I palmed the USB drive so that it was out of sight. “Just found an old soda can by her tire. Trying to be a good citizen. I don’t like trash.”
“Don’t litter, it makes the world bitter,” Brad quipped.
Wallace shot him an angry glare and then walked away again. We thanked Della for her time and went back out of the perimeter. I flipped my keys in my hand. “Come on. Let’s get back to the office.”
Brad fell into step beside me and shook his head. “It was a simple foot chase. Can’t believe you let him get away.”
I wanted to punch him, but didn’t.
Chapter Fourteen
Kathleen got to the office a couple of minutes before we did. She was talking to a secretary when we walked onto the floor. She was clutching her briefcase and her suit jacket was slung over her arm. Seeing us across the floor she waved us into her office. We followed her in and plopped into the two seats in front of her desk. “You both don’t know how to stay out of trouble, do you?” She said it lightheartedly as she sat into her chair.
Brad raised his hands in defense. “It was Ryan. He was complaining about being bored and said we should go find a super fresh murder.”
Kathleen folded her hands in front of her and leaned forward. “So what happened?”
We filled her in on the transaction notification that led us to the motel and what occurred as we arrived. Brad made sure to express his disappointment yet again that I hadn’t grabbed the guy.
Kathleen eyed his midsection from her place across the desk. “Brad, I think if either of you could have caught up to the murderer, it would have been Ryan.”
He looked down and patted his stomach. “It’s okay,” he said to it. “Don’t let them get to you.”
I held up the USB drive with a smile. “The girlfriend gave us this. Scahill told her there was some good info on it. I think we’ve got a fresh trail to sniff.”
“Did she say what was on it?”
“Nope,” Brad said. “But as soon as we get back to our desks we’re going to find out.”
“How did Miami go this morning?” I asked her.
Brad grinned. “I just bet you love talking with all the professional brown-nosers who get to wear suits all day.”
“Those brown-nosers, as you call them, are actually fine men and women who, for whatever reason, choose to keep you on our payroll.” Her tone was sharp, but her eyes were softer. Deep down, in spite of all the grief we gave her, I knew that Kathleen loved us.
“Tell me you have some good news about Guatemala,” I said, but the sudden tightness in her jaw told me otherwise.
“I wish I did.” She pushed her seat back and crossed her legs. “It appears that a Central American crime syndicate by the name of Halcón Negro was responsible for the attack on Gallardo’s mansion last night. The Secret Service and the CIA had some of their own watching the perimeter as well as some officers from the Policía Nacional Civil. Halcón Negro assembled more than a hundred men to attack the property. Our people were overrun and had to pull back into the jungle. The counterfeit money was stolen and then they set fire to the mansion.”
So someone made out with over 30 million dollars. Not a terrible payday, although it was going to take them a long time to sell it all off on the street. “The news last night said that someone from the Secret Service was killed?”
“Yes,” she said. “A Robbie Stanton.”
Brad studied my hardened expression. “You knew him?”
“Yeah. This was his first assignment overseas. He had a young wife and a newborn baby.”
Kathleen continued. “Ryan, I know you worked closely with Special Agent Bud Cole during your time down there. He received minor injuries on his back but took a round in the shoulder. He’s on his way back to Miami now, along with the rest of his team.”
“Those bad guys down there are like Whac-A-Mole,” Brad said. “You take one out and another pops up right away to take his place.”
“That’s why the CIA was there,” I said. “To make sure the organization around all that money was disassembled. But this sounds more like a cut and dry robbery, albeit highly organized.”
“The CIA is completely taking over things down there,” Kathleen said. “Needless to say it’s not the best day for the Secret Service.”
My phone rang in my pocket and Kathleen dismissed us as I pulled it out. The call was from Amy, and Brad followed me out as we headed back to our desks. “Hey, Amy.” I sat into my desk chair.
She got right to the point. “Trey left again last night.”
I didn’t want her to know that I was already privy to that. If for any reason she slipped and told Trey then he would probably change tactics. So for now I played along.
“What time?” I asked. Brad’s desk phone rang and he snatched it up.
“Around one. He took his boat keys again.” She sounded miserable.
“Okay. Look, let me see if I can keep a better eye on him and see where he’s going off to.”
“You’ll do that?”
“Of course.”
“What if he’s into something . . . you know—bad?”
“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there,” I said.
“Thanks, Ryan, for helping. It means a lot to have you in my corner on this.”
I hung up with Amy at the same time Brad was returning his desk phone to the cradle. “How is she?” he asked.
“Worried. I didn’t tell her about last night.”
“Yeah, probably best.” He slid his fingers over his computer’s trackpad and navigated to his email. “So . . . that was Krugman on the phone. He got a match from our guy last night. He just emailed me what he found. Looks like the guy with the oily hair is a Carlos Vargas.” Brad pulled up our internal database and copied over some of the information Krugman had provided. “Here we go,” Brad said triumphantly, but it was short lived and he started shaking his head. “This is not good. This guy is a really bad apple.” I pushed away from my desk and slid my chair around so I was behind him, peering over his shoulder.
My concerns over Trey skyrocketed as I scanned what the screen was displaying: Vargas was a Mexican national wanted for six murders in both Veracruz and Mexico City. At one time he had been a lieutenant in the Zellupa drug cartel before falling out of favor with them and defecting to Honduras three years ago, where he started trafficking in narcotics. There didn’t seem to be anything on him after that.
“What’s the last thing in his file?”
Brad performed a few different searches across three more federal databases. “That’s it. This guy’s been a ghost for three years, ever since he got out of Mexico. Nothing but a connection to a drug kingpin in Tegucigalpa.”
I sat back and ran my hands through my hair. “What the hell is Trey doing wrapped up with a guy like that?”
“And what’s Vargas doing up here?”
The natural conclusion would be that they were running drugs, but it had been three years since Vargas showed up on anyone’s radar. He could be into anything by now. “Whatever it is,” I said, “the direction is backwards. Trey took something to Vargas last night, not the other way around.”
“Yeah. Weird. Any idea who Trey might have access to? I thought he just cut grass and trimmed palm trees, but maybe he has an old friend or a distant relative that’s into something and brought him on board.”
It was clear enough now why Trey didn’t want to open up to me at The Reef the day before, and why Amy said he hadn’t been acting like himself. Vargas was a rotten fish—one of the worst, as far as I could tell—and that complicated how I was going to handle this. If I went to Trey and told him that we were onto him, then he could warn Vargas, who would then disappear. Then there was the added dynamic that I didn’t know what they were doing, or why. Trey might want to keep doing his little side gig, and showing my cards too early could scare him off too.
Brad drummed his fingers on his desk. He looked as worried as I felt. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m not sure. I need to think about it.”
“If you would have told me that Trey was into anything more than scalping tickets for a Marlins game I wouldn’t have believed you. I really did think he was a good kid.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Me too.”
I scooted back to my desk and slipped the USB drive into the side port. “Come on. Let’s see what’s on this thing.”
Chapter Fifteen
“What the hell?” Brad squinted at my screen and scratched his chin.
He wasn’t the only one underwhelmed by what we were looking at. The small portable drive contained just two files: one Word and one Excel. The latter had nothing but a scattering of numbers across a handful of cells. That was it. No fancy financial spreadsheets put together by some overeager accountant. Not even a secondary tab.
The Word document wasn’t much better, albeit it was something. It was just one page with just three names on it.
I clicked around on both documents for the better part of five minutes trying to find something more substantial, with no luck locating even a revision history. Della had told us that Scahill planned on getting a lot of money for this information when the time was right. He could have easily been lying to her, but then that wouldn’t explain the reason why he felt the need to hide the drive in the Coke can.
Brad leaned forward and searched the screen. “What do you think the numbers mean? Coordinates or something?”
“I don’t think so.” There were dashes between every few numbers. “They don’t read like them. Might be banking information.”
“Send it over to Spam,” Brad said.
“Good call.” I crafted an email to Frank Ritter, one of our cyber guys downstairs. Everyone just called him by his nickname. I wasn’t sure how the name had stuck, but Krugman told me it had to do with how barstool princesses felt toward him when he tried to use his god-awful pickup lines on them.
If anyone could make sense of this Excel spreadsheet, it would be Spam. I sent the email off and returned to the names.
“Wait a minute . . .” Brad said. He went back to his desk and returned with a file. He searched through it before plucking out a page. “Here. I knew I recognized that name.” He set the page next to my computer. The bold name on the top matched the one on my screen: Ian Foster.
“What’s the deal on him?” I asked.
“Foster runs a container refurbishing company near PortMiami. He sold containers to the Port and to Barker. After Barker’s arrest, the DEA questioned Foster, but he came out clean. I haven’t found anything else on him.”
I ran the other two names, Tina Edwards and Steve Holden, through our database and cross checked them with other agencies. Nothing came back. Not even a speeding ticket. Not even a listed home address. Just a PO box in South Beach. After a few minutes online we found an obscure article from a Nassau publication that had done a small feature on the couple, who were apparently dating and traveling around the Caribbean on their yacht. The article was dated nearly four months ago. That was it. Nothing about where they were going next or even the name of their boat.
I looked to Brad. “Their names don’t ring a bell for you? Don’t recognize them?”
“Nuh-uh. Never heard of them.”
“So all Scahill had was a bunch of jumbled numbers and the names of three people. He’s dead and two of these names are lost to the wind. It looks like the only thing that came out of that Coke can is a washed up lead in Miami.”
Brad offered up a smug smile. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Time to head up to Miami and pay Mr. Foster a visit, warmed over or not.”
“What? Dude, that’s not what I was thinking at all.” He lowered his voice. “Kicking out a little early? . . . The Reef? . . . Beer? And I’m getting to know this new waitress, Lisa—”
“Brad. We’re going to Miami.”
“Dammit.”
Chapter Sixteen
The treadmill sped beneath his feet and he kicked up the pace a few more notches and sprinted out his last quarter mile. Sweat was pouring down his back and his lungs were burning, but he completed his distance goal of three miles.
Trey brought the treadmill’s speed down to a walking pace and waited for his heart rate to slow before shutting down the machine and stepping off. He sat down to catch his breath and wiped a towel across his sweaty brow. Tilting his head back he lifted his water bottle and squeezed some cold water into his mouth. After wiping his lips with the back of his hand he stood up and started pacing the floor.
